Chapter 18 Red Flag
Red Flag
Dominic hadn’t minded growing up in the public eye.
Ribbon cuttings, award ceremonies, dinner with the Greek ambassador…
he knew his claret from his cabernet, his dessert forks from his salad ones.
And if he’d occasionally begrudged the endless photo ops, it was worth it because it meant that he could race.
And he would have given up anything for racing.
No. He’d never minded being famous. But tonight, for the very first time, he really wished that he could cause a scene.
Smoke hung like a curtain, filtering through the heavy lights of the casino.
The ding of the slot machines grated in his ears.
He wasn’t usually one for hard liquor, but he could use a damn whiskey.
He probably looked drunk. He felt drunk.
Had that seriously just happened? Had Marchmont actually agreed to…
His head pounded.
Not for the first time, Dominic glanced at where Juliette and Anthony were dancing.
She had impressive rhythm, although he shouldn’t have been surprised; Juliette took to most athletic activities like tire to track.
The thought stirred something even darker inside him.
Darker, and infinitely more dangerous. He glanced toward the door.
If only Cap were here to put a stop to this.
But he’d begged off early, pointing out that he needed to take Clyde for a walk, and Baz had left shortly after that.
He ought to leave too.
But he couldn’t bring himself to leave Sinclair and Juliette alone. Not when he kept looking at her like that.
“Don’t let him get to you,” Liêm said.
His friend leaned against the bar. His golden hat was drooping like a sleepy eye, and the telltale flush in Liêm’s cheeks was indicative of the fact that he would regret those last tequila shots tomorrow.
“I’m fine,” Dominic said.
Liêm gave him a look. “I’m sure. That’s why you’re about to snap that champagne glass.”
Truthfully, Dominic had forgotten that he was even holding a glass. He drained the champagne before setting it on the bar. “He’s not good enough for her.”
Liêm raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”
Something like dark amusement swirled in his chest. Far from it. A thought occurred to him. “Hang on. Did you start that game earlier just to…?”
Liêm adjusted his top hat innocently. “To what?”
Dominic squinted. He should have guessed; Liêm couldn’t make it through a dinner party without trying to set up someone with his barber’s sister’s cousin. He was an incurable romantic. And while Dominic normally found it begrudgingly endearing…
“Marchmont’s my teammate. Nothing more.”
There. He almost believed it himself. Liêm, however, snorted.
“Right. And I’m a sea cucumber named Patricia.” He lobbed his top hat at Dominic, who caught it easily. Honestly. It was like Liêm forgot they did the same reflex training. “You two clearly have history. You need to kiss and work it out.”
“I’m not going to—” He cut off. Nope, not thinking about kissing Marchmont. “We’ve agreed to keep things professional between us. End of story.” Liêm pulled out his wallet, and Dominic frowned. “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting you a very strong drink.”
“I’m good,” Dominic said. “Really.” Liêm flagged down the bartender anyway, and Dominic exhaled. “For god’s sake, Liêm, I’m good. Go talk to that girl. She obviously fancies you.”
Liêm followed his gaze to where a blonde was eyeing him from a slot machine. “Are you sure?”
“Go.”
Liêm hesitated. But he must have decided that Dominic meant it because he started toward the slot machines. Dominic glanced at his watch. Twenty to ten. Well past his bedtime, especially the night before a Grand Prix.
Five minutes. Then he’d invent an excuse and leave.
The dancing was wrapping up. He watched as Juliette slipped off toward the toilets. And Sinclair…
Dominic stiffened.
Sinclair was heading in his direction.
“You’re lucky I bowed out,” Anthony called. He was sweaty from dancing, his blond hair flopping into his eyes. “I was close to winning that game.”
Dominic shrugged. “We make our own luck.”
“I’m not surprised you lost,” Anthony said. “Seems to be your specialty.”
Dominic gave him a cool look. If it was up to him, Sinclair would be out on the street, but alas, there were rules in casinos. Don’t touch the cards. Don’t throw your rivals out third-story windows. That sort of thing.
“She’s a dish,” Anthony murmured. “Don’t you think?”
Dominic stilled. “Pardon?”
He knew who Sinclair was talking about, but the arsehole better have the balls to say it. And sure enough, Anthony smiled.
“Juliette,” he supplied casually, as if they were discussing a nice painting. “Have you seen that arse?” He signaled to the bartender. “Even better up close. No wonder half the grid wants to shag her.”
Dom’s jaw tensed. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be?”
Like the seventh circle of hell. Or a convention for raging arseholes. Or lying down in a car park, preferably in front of a large truck.
Anthony leaned in. “You know what’s fun?” His breath smelled heavily of beer and cigarettes. “I’m going to take her home and fuck her tonight. And there’s absolutely nothing you can do about it.”
White-hot rage exploded, so forceful that his ears rang with it. He knew what Anthony was trying to do. Even more, he hated that it was working. When Dominic spoke, it was an effort to keep his voice calm.
“Good for you.”
Anthony cocked his head. “You don’t seriously expect me to believe that you don’t give a shit. Not with the way you’ve been carrying on tonight.”
Dominic shrugged. “Believe what you want. I’m fine with you taking Marchmont home. Beats inbreeding, at any rate.” He nodded at Anthony’s signet ring. “I’m sure your family’s had enough of that over the years. Now if you’ll excuse me…”
He moved toward the dance floor. It was only when he turned the corner that Dominic sped up, stalking toward the toilets. A pulse thundered in his veins. He had no plan. Absolutely no idea what he was doing beyond the fact that he needed to see Marchmont, needed to warn her about—
Ah.
There she was.
Juliette looked up from where she was cramming a lip balm into her purse. Probably strawberry; it was the only type she wore. He’d done his best to forget that, but he had maddeningly perfect recall when it came to her. It was an affliction.
“Hastings.” Her eyebrows drew together. “What are you—?”
“Don’t go home with him.”
He was aware he sounded mad. He felt half-mad. Juliette stared as if he’d suddenly sprouted a third arm. “What?”
“Sinclair,” Dominic said. “Don’t go home with him.”
Juliette’s eyes glittered like chipped sapphires. “You don’t get a say in what I do. Not anymore.”
She sounded pissed off, which was fair enough. But he couldn’t stop talking.
“He’ll only use you.”
Juliette raised her chin. “That’s up to me to decide.”
He ran a hand over his face. “Don’t do this. Don’t go home with him. I’m asking you as…” He faltered. “As your teammate.”
Juliette studied him. “Why?”
“What?”
She crossed her arms. “Give me a reason not to go home with Anthony Sinclair. Tell me why you hate him so much.”
Dominic’s throat was dry. “He’s an arsehole.”
“Because he took your seat?”
“No. Because—” Dominic closed his eyes. It was taking a great deal of effort to hold himself together. “Haven’t you read the headlines?”
Her eyes were unreadable. “My phone’s in a drawer.”
Ah. Made sense. Some rookies did that, so they were in a good headspace when it came to racing. Dominic hesitated. “The things they’ve written about Sinclair…He’s not a good person. You don’t know the things he’s said.”
Juliette pressed a hand to her flushed cheeks.
“You know that most of the stuff in tabloids is a crock of shit. I’m not saying that Anthony’s reputation as the ‘bad boy of racing’ ”—this part was said in air quotations—“isn’t deserved.
I’m sure he’s done things over the years.
But the press exaggerate. It’s how they sell papers.
” She shook her head. “Just look at all the pieces they run on you. You’re telling me they’re true? ”
Dominic grimaced. He couldn’t deny there had been some outlandish articles.
Rumors that he was shagging his personal trainer, or that he had a secret cocaine addiction.
There had been a particularly disastrous spring where he was certain that everyone at his PR agency was on Adderall just to work around the clock. And yet…
“That’s different.”
Juliette crossed her arms. “How?”
“It just is.”
She exhaled. “Look, I won’t pretend to know what the press have written about Anthony this time, but…I just think everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt. That’s all.”
Dominic grimaced. Normally he’d agree.
But not this time.
There’d been too many allegations: racist comments, sexual assault claims, restaurants complaining that Sinclair and his friends had trashed the place…
Hell, just last week there’d been an article about Anthony and Frederick Von Galen on the golf course.
According to a caddy, Anthony had loudly disparaged Juliette’s driving.
Women are like horses, he’d said. Made to be ridden.
“If there’s something I should know,” Juliette said, “just say it. Plainly.”
Dominic hesitated. The desire to expose Sinclair as a simpering little toerag was increasingly tempting. But looking at Juliette…No. He couldn’t do it. If she hadn’t read those articles, then he wasn’t about to enlighten her.
“I have nothing more to say.”
Juliette surveyed him. “Why didn’t you kiss me tonight?”
Dominic paused. Whatever he’d expected her to say next, it wasn’t that. “What?”
“You heard me.”
Dominic tensed. “Because we’re in the middle of a casino.”
“And?”
“Anyone could have seen.”
“Funny,” Juliette said coolly. “That’s never stopped you before.”
The casino lights washed Juliette’s face in a white glow, making her eyes look electric blue. A terrible pounding began low in his stomach. Maybe it was the whiskey. Maybe it was the time of night. Whatever it was, Dominic heard himself say, “You really want to know why I didn’t kiss you?”
Juliette raised her chin. “Please.”
“Because when I kiss you,” Dominic said in a low voice, “it won’t be because someone told me to do it. It’ll be because I can’t help myself.”
Juliette’s mouth parted. Her lips looked soft and smelled of strawberries, and fuck if it wasn’t killing him. As if she could sense it, her tongue darted out to wet her bottom lip, and he suppressed a groan. God. How was anyone meant to possess this sort of self-control?
“I don’t do this sort of thing with you,” she murmured.
Dominic couldn’t help it. He was prowling forward, caging her against the wall. Exactly how she used to like it. “Really?” His mouth ghosted over her ear. “Because I can recall you begging me to kiss you.”
She shivered. “I was drunk.”
Dark amusement swirled in his chest. “Are you saying that you didn’t want me then?” She looked away, and he knew suddenly that they were both thinking of the same day, of the words she’d said to him. You’re my instructor. So teach me. “That you don’t want me now?”
“I hate you,” Juliette said, but she sounded breathless, her chest rising in quick, furious gasps. “You’re arrogant, and conceited, and I can’t stand you.”
“And yet you want me,” Dominic murmured. “Must be a real problem for you.”
She glared up at him. They were standing close enough that he could see the violet tinge to her eyes, like cornflower petals held up to sunlight.
Her gaze flicked to his mouth, and he could see something shifting.
Her pride warring with desire. For a moment Dominic let himself imagine it.
Fisting his hand in her hair. Crushing his mouth to her own.
Would she taste the same? Still make that little breathless sound just before he kissed her, the one that had lodged under his skin for years like a splinter? Would she—?
“Juliette!” Anthony called. “Over here.”
He waved her toward the bar. Dominic stiffened. He drew back, just far enough to meet her gaze.
“Don’t. Don’t leave with him.”
Her eyes were a challenge. “Why not?”
Because I can’t watch you do it, Dominic thought desperately. Because I can’t forgive you for what happened, but I can’t seem to let you go either. “Just trust me.”
It must have been the wrong thing to say, because her expression shuttered. “I did, once. And look where that got me.”
She might as well have slapped him. “Marchmont—”
“I’ve heard enough,” Juliette said. “Have a good evening, Hastings.”
She slipped toward the bar. Dominic let out a string of curses, flexing his hand. The fire in his chest was burning hotter, making his skin feel tight and itchy. Should he follow? Try to reason with her? But no; that would only make things worse. Maybe—
“Tough night?” a female voice asked.
Dominic closed his eyes. God, he wasn’t in the mood for a selfie.
But it was only the woman from the cards table, applying a pink hand sanitizer outside the toilets.
She really was very pretty; she had the tanned look of a California surfer.
Exactly what he might have gone for previously, before a certain stubborn race car driver ate up all his brain space.
Dominic cleared his throat. “I’ve had better.”
“Shame.” The woman shoved the hand sanitizer in her purse. “I hate to see a handsome man having a bad night.”
“Oh?”
She lifted a delicate shoulder. “Just feels like a waste. That’s all.”
The casino lights caught at her eyes. Blue, Dominic observed, just a few shades lighter than washed-out denim. They felt like the wrong sort of blue, although he hadn’t realized he’d been expecting something different.
She moved closer. “I can think of a few ways to make it better. If that’s something you’d be interested in.”
“Depends,” he murmured. “Are you going to let me buy you a drink?”
He glanced sideways. Juliette and Sinclair were at the bar together, knocking back tequila shots.
He couldn’t deny that he was half hoping that she’d look over, but she seemed entirely uninterested, as if the last ten minutes had been wiped from her mind entirely.
Anthony leaned forward, wiping a bit of salt from her cheek, and Dominic’s chest tightened.
The young woman rolled a smile around the way someone might roll a hard candy. “You know what? No. You don’t get to buy me a drink.”
Dominic raised an eyebrow. “No?”
“No.” The woman touched his chest. “Because we’re leaving. How far is your hotel?”